


Snap Out Of It

by cloakoflife



Category: Bandom, The Libertines
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Moderate Violence, Self Harm, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloakoflife/pseuds/cloakoflife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in New York 2003. Carl's beginning to think Peter is beyond saving.</p><p>"I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake baby…snap out of it.<br/>I get the feeling I left it too late but baby, snap out of it."<br/>Arctic Monkeys- Snap out of it.</p><p>Doesn't contain graphic sex but it gets pretty dark and contains references to rough sex, violence, self-harm, swearing, drug use and general bad things which may trigger- so the rating reflects this. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Albion Fic in 2014. Please leave feedback this is my first fic posted to A03 :)

 

 **Snap Out Of It.**  
 **New York, 2003.**  
  
 _I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake baby…snap out of it._  
 _I get the feeling I left it too late but baby, snap out of it._  
  
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Not there. It wasn’t supposed to be a rising, sickening feeling in my stomach and fucking sycophants and vampires swarming forth from every nook and cranny, filling every single molecule of mental and emotional space which had grown between Peter and me. But as I flung myself back onto John’s soft, king-sized bed in the large, comfortable apartment I’d been crashing in, I couldn’t help but marvel at my own naivety. What had I expected? That the mystery and excitement of New York would excite Peter in a way that crack and brown couldn’t?  
  
I mirthlessly laughed out loud at myself and rolled to grab the half-empty bottle of Jamesons I’d stashed on John’s bedside table. Yes. Yes, I had thought that…or at least hoped it. What a fucking moron. I propped myself up against the headboard and kicked off my shoes, taking a large swig from the bottle.  
  
We’d been in New York for about 12 hours before it had all gone tits up. 12 hours before Peter had begun to flood our apartment with soulless, disgusting ghouls and the stench of crack - a smell so foul, so offensive to me that within a week, I spent most of my time out of the apartment wandering the streets. After two weeks I stopped going back at all, electing to wash, eat and spend my few sleeping hours in John’s apartment instead. It wasn’t a problem; John kept relatively normal hours and I preferred the city in the starlight so we were barely ever in at the same time.   
  
I’d just gotten in from an 18 hour solo sightseeing trip around the delights of the capital. It had been kind of lovely but lonely. Without _him_ beside me. I sighed at my own patheticness and took three enormous gulps of whiskey. I’d run out of money on my travels and had been without a drink for six hours at this point. Words could not express how desperately I did _not_ want to sober up.  
  
The door creaked and John poked his head around it. He seemed surprised when my eyes met his in a hateful glare, even though he must have known I was here.  
  
“Hi”  
  
I didn’t bother replying.  
  
“I thought you might be sleeping.”  
  
Still no reply. What a stupid statement. What could I say? ‘You thought wrong, now fuck off and leave me to continue to get wasted in fucking peace'?  
  
The silence spread; my deliberate attempt to create a distance between us, to push him away. It failed. Instead he came the rest of the way into the room, purposefully, confidently approached the bed and sat next to me. I felt slightly put out that he wasn’t responding to my perfectly calculated death-glares in the way I desired, the way Peter would have reacted - by storming out and smashing shit. But then I suppose that’s the thing about John. Cool, level-headed and consistently nonplussed, no matter what we threw at him. The silent moments tumbled forward as I continually downed more and more whiskey.  
  
“Carl, you should fucking sleep, man. It’ll help.”  
  
“Don’t wanna fuckin’ sleep,” I mumbled, finally giving him something to work with. “And how the fuck will it help? It won’t change anything.”  
  
“It won’t change the situation but you’ll feel better. You’ll cope better.”  
  
“I’m coping just fucking fine. I don’t give a shit. Been to Staten Island today. Having a fucking awesome time, thank you. I don’t even know what the fuck you’re on about so mind your own fucking business.” Even if John hadn’t already known it was bullshit, my rant came a little too quickly and furiously for it to be believable. He just nodded, saying nothing. I set to draining the rest of the bottle.  
  
“You got any more?” I mumbled, embarrassed to be asking for a favour when I was acting like a twat, but not embarrassed enough to go without.  He nodded again and wordlessly left the room, coming back with a fresh bottle of my chosen poison. I was so grateful that he’d clearly stocked up for me that I gave him a small, thin smile. “You’re a saint Hassell.” He handed me the bottle and just looked me straight in the eyes, concern etched deep into them.   
  
“I got you something.” He stated simply, handing me some small white capsules. “They should knock you out. It’s up to you. But seriously think about it. It’s been four days, Carl.”   
  
I just stared up at him blankly. “I’m fucking fine, John.” I muttered defiantly.  
  
He let out a sigh, finally exasperated. “Okay. I’m going out with Gary for the day. We’ll be back about 6 o’clock. Look after yourself, we’ve seriously got to work tomorrow.” He left the ‘with or without Peter’ unspoken. With that, he curled his hand around the back of my neck, pulled me gently forward to press a delicate kiss to my forehead and then he was gone.  
  
I continued to drink aimlessly for a while, the alcohol beginning to take effect and making me pleasantly numb before leaving me feeling restless and strangely achy. I jumped to my feet to pace the room. It was then that I caught my reflection in the mirror out of the corner of my eye and froze. I swallowed dryly as I turned to face myself full on.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
And there it was. The root of all my problems. The root of all our fucking problems. Me. I walked slowly towards the mirror, feeling hate simmering and rising inside me, threatening to spill over and flood us all. _It’s me, it’s me, it’s fucking me_. I could blame Peter, could blame the drugs all I want, but it had to be me, it had to be my fault. It was my temper, it was the things I’d done to wrong him, the snide remarks, the careless fists that flew too easily into his soft flesh, the thoughtless nights I’d turned my back on him and on music to party with indie boys and cindy girls. And suddenly I was numb no more, I was angry, incensed, infuriated and desperate. Desperate to fix what I’d broken. Desperate to right impossible wrongs. In that second I realised I’d do anything, absolutely anything to make it right and at the exact same moment I also realised I was worthless, useless and powerless. If there was any way I could fix it then surely I wouldn’t have fucked it to start with. I realised I truly was the world’s biggest fuck up. I’d had it all in the palm of my hand and I’d pissed it up the wall for a bit of Charlie and a few half-decent shags. If I’d never partied all night, if I’d gone home, gone back to Peter all those nights… would he still be mine instead of theirs?  
  
I noticed the pills still stuck to the palm of my sweaty hand and snarled. I dropped them to the desk before me and swiftly crossed the room to swipe the empty Jameson bottle. I went back to the desk and stared at the pills, laughing bitterly. _I don’t fucking deserve sleep. I don’t deserve rest and respite and the escape of slumber. I deserve to suffer on and on and on. I deserve eternal torment, need it._ In a rage of self-hatred and fury, I brought the bottle down fast and sharp on top of the pills, crushing them to powder and smashing the bottle. The sound of smashing glass filled my senses as I crashed it down again and again and again, shards flying everywhere, cutting my fingers to ribbons until all that was left was about an inch of bottle neck in my bloodied hands. Shards of glass and blood and white powder covered the desk, and pain ripped through my fingers. I smiled. Much better.  
  
Then I heard a snivelling noise by the door. I whirled around, adrenaline already high from the rage and the bloodshed and saw him, in a pile on the floor. Propped against the door, head in his hands, mumbling to himself.  
  
“Peter!” I gasped in shock at his cowering form, pain and rage forgotten, my heart beating only his name.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

As I knelt next to him guilt flooded every part of me. He’d seen. He’d come to find me, to spend time with me, to make beautiful music, to kiss and make merry and be friends and I’d ruined it all. He’d come in the name of love and instead he’d seen his best friend cutting himself up in the name of hate and it was tearing him apart. I’d fucked it all up once again.

All I wanted was to pull him into my arms, hold him in my arms and tangle my fingers in his unwashed hair. I wanted to brush my lips against his and kiss away all of our problems. But the last few weeks prevented me from doing this, the distance between us far too vast and the pain too strong. Instead I placed a hand gently around him and rubbed his shoulder timidly, a friendly gesture and nothing more.

“Carl, Carl I’m so scared.”

“It’s okay Peter, I’m here, and I’m okay. It’s just a bit of blood. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Oh I’m so sorry I just…”

He finally lifted his head up and his eyes attempted to meet mine but they were spaced out and slack, too far gone to really focus on me, on his Carlos.

“Not you Carl,” he said, face knitted in confusion, “never you. The vampires Carlos, the ghouls… they want their pound of flesh. They want to tear poor Bilo limb to limb and devour him whole. There’s so many of them Carl, so many and they won’t go away. I can’t make them leave. I need you Biggles, save your Bilo, make them leave. Please Carlos, please Carl, please save me, please…” his rambles descended into madness but I already understood. 

Right. So not me then. I felt cold spread throughout my veins, the kind of cold you feel when you suddenly realise just how alone you are in the world. Like a child lost in a supermarket. Had he even noticed what I’d been doing when he entered? Did he not see the self-loathing in my eyes? Did he not witness the self-harm? Did he care? 

My fingers stopped dancing in gentle circles and my arm slackened although it stayed draped around him. He didn’t seem to notice, just dropped his head down against my chest and continued his mad ravings. My fingers trailed down and stroked his back absent-mindedly with my still bleeding hand as the cold filled every part of me, every single cell in my body. It felt like drowning, like dying. It was a physical pain as it flooded my lungs, made me choke and gasp for breath. I looked down at the top of his head but could feel no hate, could feel nothing but love and servitude. After all, I’d done this to him. When we’d met he’d been a bright-eyed beautiful boy sat at my feet in awe. I hadn’t deserved the appreciation this boy showed for me. Even then I knew it. So, self-destructive as ever, I set about obliterating it. He’d given me his respect and I’d laughed in his face, mocked his attempts to play guitar and looked down on him. He’d given me his love and I’d given him hate, beaten him black and blue, screamed and shouted and swore as he blinked back tears. He gave me his body and I’d tied him up and tortured him long after he’d screamed out the safe word. He gave me his entire life and soul and I’d perverted them all. So how could I be angry at him for a mess I created?

Resigned, I moved my hand from his back to place my fingertips to his chin. I tilted his head up, willing his eyes to meet mine this time. I winced as I realised I’d unwittingly smeared blood across his chin, the scarlet stark against his ghostly skin. 

Finally his eyes focussed on mine and all of a sudden the spaces between us were gone, all that distance between us melted away and in that moment all I saw in his junkie eyes was love, adoration, desperation and above all complete and utter faith. That boy wasn’t gone. Not completely, not yet. And part of me knew that inevitably he would be, that no matter what I chose to do or not do right then, our lives were spinning out of control and that we were on opposite trajectories and there was no way back. But in that second I had the power to not fuck it all up, just once. 

A powerful swell of heat and passion rose from my chest, battling the cold and dread and snapping me out of the downward spiral of dejection and depression I’d been in since we’d entered this godforsaken building. The heat propelled me forward and I pressed my lips hard against Peter’s, putting it all into a dry, chaste kiss. Love, hate, frustration, passion and so much desperation. He moaned, belatedly due to his drugged-out state and pressed back against me, curling his hands in my top. I pulled back briefly, licked my lips and darted my tongue out to wet his, too impatient to wait for him to cotton on. Then I was kissing him furiously, a storm of emotions raging within me, finally finding release through the contact. Before he could even contemplate kissing me in return I pushed him back, uncurling him, spreading him out and ensuring he was pressed against the door so he had a chance of staying upright. I moved quickly, straddling his legs then my lips were back on his, hungry, devouring.

It hadn’t stayed that way. Not forever. It was only in the early days I’d been so reckless with him. He’d won me round, broken me down and smoothed out my roughest edges. He’d accept my unkindness and practiced harder and harder to improve his guitar playing. When the fights and arguments were over he’d always apologize first, even when I’d clearly started it. He’d crawl into my bed meekly and put his arms around me and whisper how sorry he was for upsetting me and how he’d try to be better. I’d just nod and fall asleep in his arms. When I’d finally release him from his bounds after fucking him bloody, I’d cry at what I’d done and he’d quickly pull himself together and hold me, and told me it didn’t matter, he’d enjoyed it really. He’d tell me his body was mine and I could do anything to him. And eventually, over the years I stopped being so awful to him. I began to return it all. He had my respect, love, body, heart and soul too. I loved him so much, he became my whole world. But it was too late. The damage had been done. To him and to our relationship. Fists and fights were already a normal part of day-to-day life and he’d already turned to drugs for consolation when my cruelty got too much. No matter how much I tried to show him what he meant to me, I’d already broken us. And now… now he was gone. He was out of my reach. And somewhere along the line, I’d given up trying. He was mine, my love, my everything. But I’d given up. I’d given up reaching out for him when he would never have given up reaching out for me. I’d felt helpless, hopeless and useless. But here he was, here in front of me. Mine. 

As he began to return my desperate kiss I moved away, kissing across his cheek and down his neck, nipping harshly and making him gasp. One word buzzed through my head. Control. Finally, some fucking control. All those hours lying listlessly staring at John’s ceiling wanting to storm downstairs and shake Peter, shout and scream for him to snap the fuck out of it and wake up…and it turned out Peter ended up snapping me out of it. Or snapping my sanity I mused as I moved my hands up his shirt, bloodied fingers skimming over his flushed skin. One or the other. 

I pulled back to watch the progress of my fingers up his chest, as they gathered the filthy material of his shirt and coaxed his arms up so I could pull it gently over his head. I threw it away in disgust and turned my attention to his ruined chest. 

“Oh Peter,” I breathed, taking in the razorblade slashes and cigarette burns, bruises and grime, small smudges of my own blood and fuck knows what else. I bent forward desperately trying to press my lips softly to each one but there were too many, far too many. As I kissed each one I felt the physical pain on my own body. After all, I was the cause of them. Each and every one. They were all my fault. Even after I’d stopped treating him terribly, when we were properly together and I loved him, I still continued to break him. I’d fuck off night after night. I wouldn’t put him or the band first. If I’d given him more time, if I’d let him know exactly what he means to me, how special he is to me. If I hadn’t fucked it all up and left him alone again and again, night after night then he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have left me. ‘Oh Peter please come back.” I whispered against his chest.

He let out a sigh and whispered, “I’m here Carl, I’m right here,” but when I straightened up and rested my forehead against his, staring deep into his brown eyes I knew I only had half of him with me. I kissed him and kissed him again and again, over and over, as if kissing could bring him back to me. I kissed him until his lips were red and swollen and he was gasping for breath and shaking below me. And then I got off him. I stood and offered him my good hand. He looked up, visibly bereft and clearly aroused.

“But Carl… please…”

My own arousal was plain to see, tenting my jeans quite obviously but I just wordlessly shook my head. No. Never when you’re high. Never when you’re gone. Half of you is not enough, it has to be all or nothing. I can’t bear to share you, can’t bear to hear you cry out in pleasure and know it’s not just me making you feel so high.

He knew. He took my hand and allowed me to pull him shakily to his feet. I put an arm under his to support him and helped him into John’s bed. He could have done with a wash more than anything but he looked dopey and drowsy and there was a small chance he would sleep, for which I was sure John would forgive a stinking Peter in his bed. 

I pulled the covers over him and then moved behind him. I lay on top of the covers, spooning him from behind, wrapping my arms around him and bringing my legs up to press behind his. A futile attempt to protect him because while I could attempt to save him from the world I had no way of saving him from himself. Yet he sighed softly and wriggled back against me. I snuggled into the crook of his neck. 

“What do you need me to do then Peter?” I asked, trying not to betray my terror at the potential answers.  
He thought for a moment and then twisted his head round to look at me with those beautiful, begging eyes, so full of faith in me. 

“There’s so many of them. Some want drugs, some want money, some want to fuck me.” A dagger to my heart. “I just want them to go away, all of them.” His voice broke. “I want you to come back and them to go away. Can you make them leave?”

I wiped the tears from his eyes and stroked his hair softly. “Of course,” I soothed. “You just rest here a while, okay? I’ll take care of it. No problem.” He smiled slightly and snuggled back against the pillow. I placed one last kiss into his hair and stood. I looked to the mirror and saw that same hateful face but this time there was a strange light around me. This was my chance. My one chance to make amends. I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. It would save Peter from his chosen path, it wouldn’t save me from my demons and it wouldn’t save us from heartbreak. But it was something. It meant I wasn’t giving up on him completely. It was more effective then kissing his wounds or inflicting more. It was all I could do for him now. And he still believed in me. He still had faith that I could save him, even though I knew I couldn’t. This thought gave me the strength to grab the half empty Jamesons bottle in my hand, throw a good proportion of it down my throat and stride towards the door and out of the apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

My heart was heavy in my chest, my blood rushing and swirling in my ears, drowning out all other sound. I thundered down the stairs as my mind clouded over, a tide of emotions submerging any chance at clear or rational thought. My legs carried me automatically, without input from my brain and I glugged from the bottle, over and over again, letting the liquid burn down my throat and power my resolve. I could do this. My reputation proceeded me. Some of the ghouls would know already. They would see me, enraged and drunk and flee on sight. Others would follow. Even up the odds a bit. I had no idea how many to expect or how many would fight back, but I knew I could do it. For Peter.

I reached his, no our floor and downed the rest of the bottle. I reached into my pocket and retrieved Herr Flick. I ran my fingers over the blade enjoying the cool touch for a moment before gripping it in my painful but no longer bleeding palm. I knew I’d need my good hand free.

Right, here we go.

I left no time for thinking, no time to plan my attack. I just let all the rage and hate and frustration take over me and let it rip. I stormed loudly down the corridor and thundered my fist against the door. I had a key, could have let myself in. But where’s the fun in that? Light, shuffled footsteps on the other side of the door and it creaked open slowly. The second a twisted, sunken male face appeared the other side testosterone took over. My slender grip on sanity was gone and my animal instincts took over. I slammed my fist into his face and floored him in one powerful right hook. I stormed into the room screaming for everyone to get the fuck out of here, fuck off you cunts and if I ever see you again I’ll slit your fucking throats. 

Everything was a blur of booze and emotion and anger. Everything happened in bursts. I heard screaming and saw the girls and boys running from the room. I turned to watch them leave, heart hurting. They were always going to be the easiest to get rid of. But they were the ones I hated most of all. The ones who’d been fucking or fucked by Peter over the last few weeks in my place. They ran away easily. They didn’t even fight for him. I would do anything for him and they just run.

Next the junkie scum, wasted on the floor, slumped over sofas and, I could spy through the ajar door, lying in Peter’s bed. Our bed. Slightly more challenging, but again not difficult. Shifting my knife to my good hand I took a handful of needles and smashed them against the wall with a roar as still-healing wounds ripped open anew. Wildly wielding the knife I rounded on the first group, whose eyes were now slightly alert and who had the decency to look mildly afraid.

“Get the fuck out of here, and stay the fuck away from me and Peter.” I roared, not even watching them leave as I grabbed an empty wine bottle and headed for the bedroom.  
I launched the bottle against the wall just above the heads of the wasters entangled on the bed. They jumped up as shards of glass rained down of them. I seized the bedside lamp and it followed the bottle against the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re still doing here?? Get the fuck out or I’ll smash your fucking faces in.” They screamed and ran for the door. One aimed a slow but vicious punch at my head and I shoved him hard against the wall. It was easy, the boy was skin and bones. Like Peter had been all those years ago. I pounded my fists into the boy’s skin, over and over, again and again, feeling weak bones cracking and hearing screams through the blood pounding in my ears. Eventually he managed to squirm out. I continued to pummel the wall for several minutes, ripping the skin from my knuckles. When I began to calm and the haze began to lift I thought how cross John would be with me when he discovered what a mess I’d made of my hands. I’d be no good for playing the guitar tomorrow, that was for sure.

I began to feel relief flood me.

They’re gone, I did it, I’ve cleared them out I’ve finally got something right—

Before the thought could even clear my head, a huge hand wrapped itself around my throat and pushed me hard against the wall, practically lifting me off my feet and knocking all the air from my lungs. Fuck. My vision swam and black spots danced in the corners of my eyes but I could make out the huge, scarred, snarling face of a skinhead dressed head to toe in black leather. He was massive, much stronger than me. I knew I could never take him. Fear gripped me and I stopped trying to breathe. I just froze.

“So you’ll be the little cunt’s pretty little lover then?” He sneered at me. “I’d heard he had one, heard you were the one to come to if I couldn’t get the cash out of him. Must admit, didn’t believe it though. Thought I was being taken for a ride. Didn’t think someone who fucks around as much as him would have someone stupid enough to have him.” He leaned in close and whispered cruelly in my ear. “Your boyfriend is a fucking slut. He’ll have it from anyone. He offered his ass to me rather than cough up £200.” He pulled back, loosening his grip tightly to watch my reaction to his words. “£200. That’s it. That’s all this is about.”

My eyes fell closed as tears stung at them. £200. Only £200. He could have paid that easily, but he’d rather offer himself to this dealer than pay it. He could have asked anybody, anyone of the band or entourage and they’d have sorted it out. But instead he’d sent me down, put me in this life or death situation. Why I wondered? Because it’s nothing more than I deserve, a part of me answered back. A part of me hoped this guy had given up on getting his money and would just take my life in payment instead. He gave my throat a little shake until I opened my eyes and looked at him again.

“I didn’t fuck your boyfriend. I don’t swing that way. I want my cash. Although…” His eyes ran up and down me, undressing me with his stare. “You’re practically a girl anyway. And I like them with a bit of fight.”

Oh god he’s going to rape me.

Every muscle in my body tensed. He laughed, mirthlessly.

“Lucky for you pretty boy, I’m strapped right now and I need the cash. You gonna sort it for me?” I tried to nod but I couldn’t move my head far enough.

“Yes,” I rasped out.

“There’s a good boy,” he smirked. “Have it here, tomorrow at noon. If you don’t, I might change my mind about my…payment methods.”

He released me and stalked from the room. I wobbled on my feet for a moment before falling to the floor, exhausted, shaken and completely broken.

It all hit me at once, the guilt, the pain, the jealousy. They crashed and collided inside of me and suddenly it was all too overwhelming, too helpless, too impossible. I’d done things, terrible things to Peter. I’d spent years destroying him and even more years trying to fix him but the fact was, the Albion was sinking. Our ship was going down and all I was ever doing was plugging one hole as several more sprouted up around me. My boy was almost gone and all that was left to decide was whether to drown with him or save myself. And in that moment, I finally knew I didn’t really want to die. No matter how difficult and shitty life could be, I still wanted more. Peter had given me that. Peter had made me want to live. But this was it. This was all I could do to save Peter. It was time to start saving Carl, or there would be no one left. The best way I could thank Peter for saving me was by not letting him destroy me.

I have no idea how much time passed before I left the apartment and staggered back upstairs. I collapsed onto John’s bed beside my sleeping broken boy and finally slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me your love or comments! They are desperately cherished, I need validation <3


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